


The Endless Rise of the Sun

by 2am_limbo



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mary Doesn't Exist, BAMF John, BAMF Mycroft, Drug Use, Established Relationship, John Loves Sherlock, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft is Sweet, Nothing But Random Sherlock Whump, POV Mycroft Holmes, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Reichenbach Angst, Reichenbach Missing Scenes, Reichenbach-Related, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock Loves John, Sherlock Whump, Sherlock's scars, Sherlock's time away, Suicidal Thoughts, fast paced
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-12 13:02:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5666989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2am_limbo/pseuds/2am_limbo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft watched his brother intently, his hands resting on the handle of his umbrella -- his signature pose -- with a look of… What? Agony? Torment? Heartache, maybe? A mixture of all three, yes, and more.</p><p>Sherlock leaned back against the wall with a thud, catching himself as he wobbled and closed his eyes. Mycroft couldn’t let his brother go on like this, living and torturing himself in this despair and loneliness; and he decided right then and there that he would find a way -- some kind of safe way -- to get John Watson back to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unwell

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place during Sherlock's time away after the Fall. I've always wished that they would cover more of Sherlock's time away, so here are my thoughts. There is talk of drug use and suicidal thoughts -- nothing too detailed (and I don't plan for it to be at this point in time) -- but there it is in case that's a trigger.

Mycroft watched his brother intently, his hands resting on the handle of his umbrella -- his signature pose -- with a look of… What? Agony? Torment? Heartache, maybe? A mixture of all three, yes, and more.

Sherlock leaned back against the wall with a _thud_ , catching himself as he wobbled and closed his eyes. Mycroft couldn’t let his brother go on like this, living and torturing himself in this despair and _loneliness_ ; and he decided right then and there that he would find a way -- some kind of _safe_ way -- to get John Watson back to him.

Sherlock has so far spent a year and a half in complete isolation -- of violence and pain -- always on the move, desperately missing the comforts of _home_ , and he was quickly unraveling, tearing himself apart; and frankly, Mycroft was a bit surprised that Sherlock had lasted this long without _something_ happening.

* * *

 

Sherlock, Mycroft felt -- _knew_ \-- was one of the strongest, if not _the_ strongest, men he’s ever known. Infuriating, yes, and oftentimes childish, but brilliant and emotionally strong nonetheless. Mycroft was cold and challenging, but he deeply cared for his brother. Sherlock was his pressure point, and he would do anything in his power to keep him safe. Sherlock, however, was much more _human_ , much more human than he allowed the public to see, but Mycroft knew, and John certainly knew. Knew the real man beneath the facade, and it was only a matter of time before something broke his brother while on this mission.

A year and a half of isolation, not having the luxury (what Sherlock now viewed as a luxury as opposed to his views in his _previous life_ ) of _human contact_ . Of talking and laughing and casual touches. Sherlock missed London, the life and breath of the city, he missed his bed and John’s tea. Sometimes Sherlock would wake up from a fitful sleep, covered in sweat, with the feel of _John_ tingling on his chest, of John’s breath on the back of his neck, and he would close his eyes again and sigh. Something tight and dreadful would clench in his chest, and all that helped on those nights was the heroin.

* * *

 

Sherlock had been _fine_. Had been fine for the first ten months or so. He missed John terribly and regretted how things had turned out, turned into _this_ , but he was enjoying the chase, the adrenaline, the chance to disappear for a while with the knowledge of being able to eventually return home.

Home. Baker Street. To his John. John. John.

And then one day Sherlock woke up and wished he was dead. It was a deep, dark feeling that he was familiar with, and all he could think about was overdosing on what he had left of his heroin, but he couldn’t be bothered to move. It had been a year since he had properly spoken with someone, really spoken with someone outside of questioning and the like, and he was gradually losing his mind. He was beginning to lose interest in everything, everything he had aimed to accomplish after the Fall. He just wanted to go home, home to John.

That night, Sherlock could have sworn that he saw John watching him from a coffee shop’s picture window as he stood on the curb. He looked up from his burner phone to find the seat empty.

* * *

 

After a year, three months, two weeks, and one day, Mycroft let himself into the small room where Sherlock had been staying, a ritual they shared once a month or so -- above ground, of course, with proper exits, but well-hidden -- and found Sherlock nearly unconscious on the mattress beneath the window.

Mycroft slowly sat down on the edge of the mattress. He always -- secretly, of course -- admired his brother’s ability to manage the “leg work” and “heavy lifting”, so-to-speak, to immerse himself in anything he deemed interesting and worth his time. His current living arrangements served as a perfect example. Mycroft could never tolerate it.

Mycroft looked down at his brother lying on his side, his back up against the cool brick, and gently brushed away the damp curls from Sherlock’s forehead.

“Oh, Sherlock…” Mycroft sighed, “If I could fix--”

Sherlock shrugged a shoulder. “Leave me alone, My.” Sherlock always reverted back to their childhood nicknames when he was high out of his mind, and this was certainly no exception. He sounded so terribly sad and _tiny_. “I’m getting the job done. No need to worry yourself.”

“Stop it, Sherlock,” Mycroft snapped. “I do not care about the _job_. I’m worried about you.”

Sherlock snorted and rolled away from Mycroft, wrapping his arms around his abdomen. “You advocated to send me here,”

“I had no idea that his network would be this massive and intricate. We didn’t think it would need to take this long. I didn’t realize --” Mycroft took in a deep breath and hissed. Sherlock was trembling by now and had broken out in a sweat. He rolled his face slightly forward and into his pillow as if in pain, and Mycroft’s heart broke just a little bit more.

“Here,” Mycroft said quietly, pulling up the blanket that Sherlock had kicked to the side and draped it over his brother. Mycroft stood and made his way over to the small loo -- if you could call it that -- to fetch a rag, and wet it with lukewarm water. As he sat back down, he began dabbing at Sherlock’s forehead, wiping away his damp curls as their mother had done when Sherlock was a child in the throes of one of these episodes. To Mycroft’s surprise, Sherlock didn’t protest, but instead sighed quietly, almost inaudibly, and after a few moments, Sherlock tightened his arms around his stomach a little tighter.

“I miss John.”

With a deep frown later that evening after Sherlock had fallen asleep, Mycroft tore out a small page from Sherlock’s notebook and wrote: “55° 45' 4.4784'' N, 37° 37' 6.3228'' E” to pass along to his people to then pass along to John Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, follow me on tumblr @ [2am-limbo](http://2am-limbo.tumblr.com/).


	2. Letters From the Sky

Some days all John can manage to do is to not to curl up in Sherlock’s bed -- _their_ bed -- and lay there for God knows how long. Today, he’s not managing.

John never left 221B, he couldn’t bear it. After six months of Sherlock being _gone_ , John began to accept that he wasn’t coming back, that he wouldn’t be coming home, and so John boxed up some of Sherlock’s chemistry equipment and covered his microscope, and placed it on their bookshelf where it could be seen and unseen at the same time. He couldn’t bring himself to put away much else.

Sherlock’s scent had long since faded from their bed, and John allowed himself to shed a few tears the night he realized it. Mrs. Hudson, however, had walked in to tidy things up only to find the expensive bottle of Sherlock’s shampoo on the nightstand.

Today, though, John rolled over in bed to look at the clock -- 3:27 PM. He hadn’t moved all day outside of going to the loo. He just couldn’t -- couldn’t muster up the energy -- and frankly, he didn’t really care. He’d go back to work tomorrow with a smile on his face.

Sometimes late at night when John would roll over, he could feel Sherlock’s curls as they tickled his nose as if John was holding him close to his chest. On those nights, John wished the morning wouldn’t come so quickly.

* * *

 

Early one morning while John had been getting ready for work, the bell at the front door buzzed. For some reason, Mrs. Hudson didn’t beat him to the door, and an envelope had been slipped underneath. John stood there and stared at it, just stared, before he went to pick it up.

The envelope was heavy in his hand -- heavy high quality paper, a cream color -- and was sealed with a burgundy wax seal. On the front “Dr. John Watson” was written in small cursive script, and above the back seal read “MH”.

John frowned. MH. Mycroft Holmes.

John was careful when he broke the seal and pulled out a folded piece of paper from the envelope -- folded only once and with precision -- and all that was written was what John assumed were coordinates upon first glance. 55° 45' 4.4784'' N, 37° 37' 6.3228'' E.

John’s brow furrowed in confusion, and he swung the door open to peer around. He hoped to see someone, anyone, near the flat, but of course, no one was there. John made his way upstairs and pulled out his laptop, which he hadn’t used too terribly often after the Fall -- what was the point? -- to research the coordinates.

* * *

 

Moscow, Russia. John glared at the screen. Why in the hell would Mycroft send him to Russia? What was he playing at? Better yet, why would Mycroft be talking to John at all? John huffed and slammed the laptop’s screen closed as he resisted the urge to toss it across the room. As John reached over to the side table to pick up his phone, the doorbell buzzed again, but John remained seated.

“Doctor Watson,” came a familiar voice from the front door of 221B after a few moments. “It’s good to see you.”

John didn’t answer, didn’t say what he really wanted to say -- _why the bloody hell are you here? How dare you come here -- and near me! --  after what you did to your brother!_ \-- but John only frowned instead and tried his best to glare.

“I trust you got my note?” Mycroft raised his eyebrows with a polite smile as his hands rested on the handle of his umbrella.

“I don’t understand,” John simply said.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied as he tilted his head a fraction to the side. “Mind if I sit? We have a lot to discuss.”

* * *

 

“So, you’re telling me…” John sat in his chair and clenched his hands into fists on the armrests, “that Sherlock is alive… that he’s been alive this whole _bloody_ time.”

“Yes,” Mycroft nodded once and readjusted his hands in his lap over his crossed legs. He looked down at his hands for a moment, brows furrowed, and he frowned as he thought for a second.

“Listen to me, John,” Mycroft said softly, almost endearing. “I know that you’re angry. Beyond angry. I can’t even begin to fathom all of the things that you must be feeling, or have felt, but you must understand. My brother did not have a choice. Moriarty had snipers placed on you and your Mrs. Hudson and Detective Inspector. In order to save you, he had to jump. They had to see that he was dead in order to call off the hit. He needed to save you. He...” A pause. “He _loves_ you, John. Very much so.” Mycroft explained. He sneered a little bit when he said the word _loves_.

Mycroft paused and gave a sad frown, looking away from John for a moment. “I always did tell Sherlock that caring was not an advantage, and yet here we are.”

John sucked in a deep, deep breath and closed his eyes for a second as he clenched his fists, flexed his fingers. “I need a drink.”

“I thought as much,” Mycroft replied coolly as he pulled out a small bottle of scotch from his briefcase.

“In the time that my brother has been away,” Mycroft began again as they sipped at their drinks, “he has been tracking down various cells within Moriarty’s network. We didn’t expect for it to take this long, but Moriarty was indeed very… _thorough_ in his endeavors.” Mycroft poured John another drink and topped off his own.

“Sherlock has been around to just about every continent -- dozens and dozens of countries -- and has done a spectacular job thus far, as only Sherlock can do,” Mycroft gave another small smile and examined the etches in his glass for a moment. “But lately, John, Sherlock has been… struggling,” Mycroft looked up to John then and met his gaze. “To say the least,” he added quickly.

“What do you mean, _struggling_?” John asked bluntly as he clenched his jaws until it hurt, and lifted his chin in defiance.

“The coordinates that were given to you,” Mycroft began as he eased back into “Government Official” voice, “everything has been taken care of, all expenses paid, and whatever else you may need will, of course, be covered.”

And then John understood. He huffed out a humorless, bitter laugh, and looked away. “I can’t just pick up-- I can’t just dro--” John closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose.

“John. _Please_.” Mycroft pleaded, and John had never seen Mycroft Holmes like this in the years that he had known him. John looked at him then, really looked at him, and saw that this was dire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, follow me on tumblr @ [2am-limbo](http://2am-limbo.tumblr.com/).


	3. You Found Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I messed with the timeline a wee bit here. I had Sherlock away for about a year and half instead of two years, just in case anyone notices the inconsistency.

John stepped off the plane and onto the tarmac at the private air strip in Moscow. He frowned and his chest hurt like hell. He didn’t know what the hell to do. What was he supposed to do when he saw Sherlock? What was he supposed to _say_?

A familiar black car pulled up on the tarmac and waited for John. He was supposed to be picked up and dropped off near where Sherlock was currently staying, and from there, John was pretty much on his own.

_“And John,” Mycroft said quietly. “Sherlock doesn’t know that I have orchestrated this. Please, do take care of him. You know how to reach me if needed.”_

John sucked in a huge, not-at-all reassuring breath, clenched his fists, and then picked up his bag from the ground. He made his way to the car and was hit with a violent wave of nostalgia.

* * *

 

John stood frozen at a street corner as people rushed all around him. It was about 5:00 PM -- and John felt the jet lag -- and the sun was now barely visible. He was across the street from where a side alley was narrowly located -- where _Sherlock_ was located -- and John found it hard to move.

John blinked rapidly a few times as he saw a man walking down the opposite side of the street, clearly stumbling here and there, and he recognized the man immediately by the mop of unruly dark curls. Sherlock wasn’t wearing his signature Belstaff, nor was he wearing a suit jacket -- which made John unbelievably sad -- but was dressed in his normal black slacks and a black button up shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looked so _Sherlock_ , so _real_ , that John could barely breathe, and he found it increasingly difficult to suck in any air.

Across the street, Sherlock dropped something on the ground -- his keys, John guessed -- and Sherlock only gazed down at them, clearly not in his right mind. A minute passed until he reached down to grab them, and as he stood back up, he looked to his right and saw John. His brow furrowed, his mouth dropped only slightly, and of course John was there in a second when Sherlock’s legs nearly gave way as he swayed forward and back from the weight of his drugged body, his muddled mind, and his emotional hurricane.

“John, wha--”  Sherlock looked to John with half-lidded eyes and a confused expression as John wrapped an arm around his waist to guide Sherlock down the alley.

“John,” Sherlock whispered again, more to himself. John recognized on sight Sherlock’s little brick hut-type hideout hidden on the side of a tall building with two narrow stone steps. He helped Sherlock step up, and again Sherlock whispered, “I miss saying your name, John.”

John gently lowered Sherlock down onto the mattress and looked around the small flat. He took in his surroundings, disgusted and heartbroken that Sherlock had been living here, here in this place that somewhat resembled a drug den of all things.

“Sherlock, what did you take?”

Sherlock’s eyes were closed, and his brows furrowed in confusion again, rolling his head to put his face in the pillow for a second. “You’re not real, John. My mind is playing tricks on me again.”

John pulled the blanket up over Sherlock and brushed away his curls from his forehead. “God, I wish you were here. But I’m a dead man, remember, John?”

John sat down on the edge of the bed next to Sherlock and ran his hands across Sherlock’s shoulder and back, down his arm, over his face. Sherlock smiled softly then. “John, John, John.”

* * *

 

Sherlock woke the next morning with a jolt. His head was foggy, but he felt something against him, something _breathing_ , and he couldn’t wrap his mind around it. He quickly sat up, immediately causing his head to spin, and leaned over John, who peered up at him, expressionless.

Sherlock didn’t say anything as he hovered over John and examined him. He looked up to the back wall as his eyes flicked from place to place, brows knitted together as he thought. Finally he looked back down and searched John’s eyes.

“...John?”

John gave a faint smile then. “It’s me, Sherlock.”

“How…?”

“Mycroft came to me. He’s worried to death over you.” Sherlock said nothing, felt nothing. He wasn’t even mad that Mycroft had done this. He found that he didn’t care about much of anything anymore.

John reached up and cupped Sherlock’s face in his hands. Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed through his nose.

“How do you not hate me, John. _I_ hate me.” Sherlock wasn’t asking.

“Oh, Sherlock…” John pressed his lips into a thin line and smoothed his thumbs over Sherlock’s cheekbones. “I tried to hate you for so long. I was so _angry_ and betrayed, and I _tried_ , but I’ve never stopped believing in you, I could never hate you.” John looked at Sherlock in that way that always made Sherlock feel as if his soul was being examined, and ran his fingers through Sherlock’s curls.

“Oh, Christ…” John hissed as he almost choked on a breath. “God, I missed you so much.”

“I’m sorry, John. I’m sorry. I had to do it. They were going to kill --”

“Shh, I know.” John smoothed his hands down Sherlock’s face again in an attempt to calm him. “I know. Mycroft told me everything.”

“I’ve done a lot here, John. I’ve brought down a lot of people. Groups, cells. Major players in Moriarty’s game. But I can’t do it anymore. I can’t.” Sherlock looked down to John again, “I’m losing my mind,” He said quietly. “I can feel it. And I’m so tired. For the past 18 months I was able to keep going because I knew that I’d be coming home to you, but then I stopped believing that.”

“You’ve been alone this entire time?”

Sherlock only looked down at John and remained silent. That was the only answer John needed.

“We have to get you off these drugs, Sherlock, and get you home. I’ll talk to Mycroft.” Something flickered behind Sherlock’s eyes at the mention of _home_ , and it broke John’s heart. “This will kill you.” John gently pulled Sherlock’s head down and kissed his lips, his forehead. “I love you, and I’m going to get you out of here. Understand?”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, follow me on tumblr @ [2am-limbo](http://2am-limbo.tumblr.com/).


	4. Anchor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I'm so sorry it's taken so long to update. I've been going back to school for a second degree related to my job, and so my life has been pretty hell-ish. BUT! I have one last final in a couple days, and then I'm free until mid-August! :D

Over the course of several hours on the plane ride back to London, Sherlock said nothing. He stayed in his Mind Palace for hours, completely unaware of John’s presence or where he even was. Sherlock had shut down so completely, had entirely checked out emotionally, that John had no idea where to even begin.

Finally, though, around 10:00 PM as the plane circled London from above, Sherlock opened his eyes and lifted his steepled hands from his chin to his lips, brow furrowed in confusion.

“John,” he whispered, half in question and half in awe. “Why are you here?” He whispered again and noticeably sank down in his seat a bit. “Am I finally dead? Please tell me this is all over.”

John’s breath hitched at Sherlock’s words, and his heart broke a little bit more. John didn’t even think that could be possible.

“You’re not dead, love,” John offered just as quietly. “I came for you, remember? Mycroft sent me.”

Sherlock hummed and absently traced his fingers over his lips, his signature thinking pose. Finally, suddenly, Sherlock stood. He swayed for a brief moment from the suddenness of the action, but then steadily made his way to John who sat a few feet in front of him. Sherlock grabbed John’s hands from the arm rests and pulled him up with unexpected strength, and pulled him close. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John tightly, and engulfed what seemed like every inch of John -- around his neck, shoulders, lower back, and then placed his face in the crook of John’s neck and shoulder.

Once John’s initial shock wore off, he hugged Sherlock just as tight, if not tighter, which only caused Sherlock to bury his face deeper, taking in the scent of John Watson that he had long ago forgotten. He clutched at John’s shirt, trying his best to pull John even closer, if at all possible.

“I missed you,” Sherlock whispered into John’s skin. He wanted nothing more than to climb into John, feel that warmth, that love, that he lost long ago. “I miss everything.”

Sherlock pulled away then, but held John at arm’s length, examining every inch of him. And just like that everything flooded back to him. The crinkle at the corner of John’s eyes when he smiled, the crooked, shy smirk when he found Sherlock endearing, his strong embrace, the way he always, always knew exactly what Sherlock needed…

Sherlock’s brow furrowed in concern then. “You’ve lost weight, John. You’ve gone grey.” John chuckled then, and a real smile appeared on his face as he searched Sherlock’s eyes.

“Come here, you,” John pulled Sherlock back to him and kissed his cheek. John reached up to Sherlock’s curls, sighed at the familiar feel, and cradled Sherlock’s head back down to his shoulder.

Sherlock sighed then and allowed himself to take in a deep, deep breath. He hadn’t felt this light, this  _ okay _ in so, so long. He had forgotten what loneliness and constant sadness felt like when he had met John Watson, and then he had forgotten what happiness and contentedness felt like when he had left. He wasn’t used to this, and Sherlock promised right then and there that he would never, ever leave John Watson again, and he vowed to prove that every day for the rest of his days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I always tend to write short chapters... Sorry. :(  
> Also, follow me on tumblr @ [2am-limbo](http://2am-limbo.tumblr.com/).


	5. Unsteady

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Lord, I can't believe it's been a year since I've updated this. My 2016 was such a terrible, terrible year (seriously, everything went wrong for me, not even exaggerating). But I haven't forgotten this story, I loved it when I came up with the idea, and I have the time to write again. So... forgive me. Here's chapter 5.

Sherlock spent the next morning curled up on the bathroom floor of 221B with his cheek pressed into the cool tile as he vomited once or twice every couple of hours. Around 2:00 that afternoon, the vomiting seemed to have subsided, and the chills and body aches of withdrawal took its place.

Sherlock had managed to make it to the sofa where he had his head in John’s lap in a cocoon of blankets. Luckily, gratefully, Mycroft had taken care of Mrs. Hudson as well. He went to her while Sherlock and John were on the plane home -- _home_ \-- and explained everything. She seemed to understand Mycroft’s unspoken plea to leave his brother be for now until he got well.

“Love,” John murmured delicately on the couch, “let’s try to get you in the tub, yeah? The hot water will help your muscles, I’ll even wash your hair for you,” John said lightly, trying his best to add a bit of lighthearted humor

Sherlock tensed immediately and clenched his jaw, but decided not to try to speak until the pounding in his head subsided.

“I really do think it’ll help,” John added.

“I’ll do it myself,” Sherlock snapped. John looked down in surprised concern but said nothing. He slid his hand from Sherlock’s curls down to his back to rub soothing circles over the fabric, but Sherlock immediately shrugged him off and sat up in order to stand. Once he managed to get himself on his feet, he padded over to his room as he wrapped the blankets tighter around himself as he went, and slammed the door shut.

John sat there, stunned, his mouth agape as he wondered what in the hell just happened.

* * *

 

An hour or so later John decided to heat up some chicken broth that Mrs. Hudson left outside of their door in a basket of assorted foods, including all of the sweets that Sherlock loved and secretly stashed away when he thought John wasn’t looking.

John took the hot steaming mug of chicken broth and some saltines on a tray to Sherlock’s room, and knocked softly.

“Sherlock?” John tried as he pressed his ear to the door. Nothing. He cracked open the door and peaked in. He saw Sherlock on the bed but no longer wrapped in blankets, but instead they were in a heap on the floor, and he had shed all of his clothes but for his pants. John suspected a fever.

“Can I come in?” John tried again. Sherlock hummed in response. John went and sat on the edge of the bed, and he placed the tray on a stack of textbooks next to the nightstand. “I brought some chicken broth and saltines. Do you think you can eat something? We need to get some fluids in you.” Sherlock didn’t respond, but peeled his eyes open to look over at the tray. “We can stay in here or go into the kitchen, yeah?”

Sherlock closed his eyes again and let out a breath. “You don’t have to do this, John. I’ve gone through withdrawal many times before,” he muttered. John was quiet for a moment and tried his hardest not to get irritated.

“This isn’t just withdrawal, Sherlock,” John said calmly. He didn’t miss the way Sherlock clenched his teeth again and then covered his eyes with his arm, but John persisted. “Look at you, Sherlock, you’re a _mess_ . God knows what you were involved in while you were away, but I _know_ something is wrong. I’m not an idiot regardless of what you and Mycroft think, so stop pushing me away.”

John stood up suddenly and pointedly said “drink your soup before it gets cold,” as he walked out of Sherlock’s bedroom and slammed the door.

* * *

 

Shortly thereafter, Sherlock emerged from his room. John had started a fire and was sitting in his chair with a book, and the dim light casted a shadow over him as the sun went down. Sherlock purposely clinked his empty mug in the sink and made his way over to his own chair across from John. Now re-dressed in his pajamas, he sat cross-legged in his chair with his crackers, and said nothing while he tried to quietly bite into the crackers.

“Thank you for the soup,” Sherlock whispered. John simply hummed “mhmm” without lifting his eyes from his book, and pointedly turned the page. Sherlock watched and slumped his shoulders before he looked away again. The room remained uncomfortably quiet for several moments until Sherlock could no longer stand it.

“Mycroft says I have PTSD,” Sherlock blurted. When John finally looked up from his book in surprise, Sherlock, wide-eyed, snapped his mouth closed and placed his hands in his lap. “He had someone evaluate me when he sent you off to get things ready for the trip home.” He explained much more quietly. “From my time in Serbia shortly before you came for me.”

“Oh,” John breathed, at a loss for words, and after a moment added “please don’t push me away. I can relate. I can help if you’ll let me.”

Sherlock looked away and remained quiet for several minutes, and John allowed him that. Finally, Sherlock looked back to John. “I don’t want to talk about it. Not yet. But I can show you.”

John looked a bit confused, but nodded once. “Alright. Show me.”

“I feel well enough to manage a shower. On my own. You can wait in my room if you’d like.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, follow me on tumblr @ [2am-limbo](http://2am-limbo.tumblr.com/).


	6. Scars

John sat on the edge of Sherlock’s bed nervously as Sherlock shut himself in the bathroom in order to bathe. John fidgeted and clenched his hands into fists in his lap while he waited, and he intensely strained his ears in order to make sure Sherlock was okay in the next room over.

When Sherlock turned off the shower and stepped out, he looked in the mirror. He rapidly blinked a few times and tried to breathe as best as he could. He felt like he had been punched in the gut, winded, and completely stunned at what he saw. His face was so sunken and ashen, his cheekbones more pronounced than ever, and dark circles around his tired-looking eyes. He long since stopped looking in mirrors ages ago. He looked down to his torso and squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t stand it -- how much weight he had lost, the white scars healed long ago, and the pink ones still healing, everyday reminders seared into his skin everywhere he examined, and Sherlock was having a hard time breathing.

“Sherlock? You okay?”

“Fine,” Sherlock choked out as he lifted his eyes back up to the mirror, and pulled out his other towel to wrap around his shoulders along with the one around his waist. He stepped out into his bedroom, and John looked away when Sherlock picked up his clean pajamas from the chair next to the door. Once Sherlock finished dressing, John looked back as Sherlock came to sit next to John on the bed, and faced each other. Sherlock didn’t say anything for several moments and wouldn’t look John in the eyes.

“Sherlock,” John began when he saw just how much trouble Sherlock was having breathing, the shallow rise and fall of his chest, and he grabbed Sherlock’s hands. “Love, you don’t need to show me anything if you don’t want to or aren’t ready. It’s okay. It really is,” John gave a half smile to hopefully reassure Sherlock, but it didn’t appear to have helped any.

“My --” Sherlock’s throat seemed to close before he could finish speaking, and he closed his eyes and cleared his throat to try again. “My back,” he said, briefly motioning behind himself. John nodded stiffly once and squeezed Sherlock’s hands as he stood up to sit behind Sherlock, and Sherlock continued to keep his eyes closed.

John gently pulled away the towel that Sherlock had left over his back when he dressed, and tried his best not to suck in a shocked, heartbroken breath.

“Who did this to you?” John asked calmly, as calm as he could manage. He tried his hardest to not let the anger through. “Is it okay if I touch, love?” Sherlock said nothing but nodded.

John gently traced patterns and outlines all over the surface of Sherlock’s back, and he tried his hardest to remain calm and to act like he wasn’t going to be sick at any given moment . There were large nasty scars that covered what were once large gaping wounds that were somehow stitched closed. Deep cigarette burns, and jagged lacerations caused most likely by dull knives, and so many other scars and healing wounds that John didn’t even want to theorize their origin.

“God, I am so, so sorry…” John whispered, and he kissed Sherlock’s back at the base of his neck. John slid his hands down Sherlock’s arms and wrapped them around his waist as he rested his cheek on Sherlock’s back. “I could kill whoever did this to you.”

“Mycroft took care of it.”

John huffed, “of course he did,” and gently squeezed Sherlock around his middle. “I love you, you know. I owe you everything.”

“John, no.” Sherlock stood and went to pick up his t-shirt from the chair near the bathroom. “No,” he repeated quietly, almost to himself as he fumbled with his shirt to figure out which way was the front to slip over his head.

“John, I’m not --” Sherlock sighed, exasperated, and slipped the t-shirt on, and then he closed his eyes to gather his thoughts for a moment. “I’m not telling, _showing_ , you these things to make you feel bad. I just…” Sherlock shook his head and peered beyond John for a moment. “I just need for you to know, for _someone_ to know. Mycroft knows things, yes, but I suspect he only knows what I _want_ him to know, and I’m not going to go talk to some… some _stranger_ about matters of national security, and --” Sherlock began talking faster and faster, and he barely even stopped for air between words, almost bordering on a panic attack. “I’m not going to talk to some stranger about being chained up in a stone prison in _God-knows-where_ , Serbia for four months where I was beaten and tortured and… Mycroft was finally able to infiltrate the prison and get me out. That should be good enough.”

John had quietly made his way across the room to Sherlock with his hands up while Sherlock spoke, and gently reached out to grab each of Sherlock’s biceps as his chest heaved with each heavy breath.

“... So why isn’t that good enough, John.” Sherlock whispered after a moment as he tried his best to focus only on the warmth emanating from John’s fingers. He wasn’t asking.

* * *

 

Later that night, John got to work on Sherlock’s special dinner. Not only did Sherlock _ask_ for food, but he also requested all of his favorite things, and so John elicited the help of Mrs. Hudson. After making sure that Sherlock was absolutely sure that he’d be okay up in 221B by himself for sporadic increments at a time, John meandered downstairs with his gathered ingredients in order to use Mrs. Hudson’s oven simultaneously.

Once John got the chicken roasting and Sherlock’s favorite pie assembled, he trudged back up the stairs with Mrs. Hudson’s mixer in order to start on the mashed potatoes. At first, John had a moment of panic when he didn’t immediately see Sherlock where he had left him on the couch, but after a quick scan of the room, he found Sherlock sitting on the floor by the window with a stack of books taken from the bookshelf.

Sherlock simply sat there, looking entirely too small in the pajama pants and shirt that used to fit him so well, as he gently traced his fingers over the leather bound books. Sherlock’s face was flushed and his eyes were glassy, but overall he appeared calm.

“Love? All right?” John was trying his best to seem nonchalant and like he wasn’t hovering. He didn’t want to give Sherlock the impression that John thought he was going to suddenly break or immediately relapse, but he also knew that Sherlock would internalize everything until he reached his breaking point.

“I forgot so many things,” Sherlock answered calmly.  “My books. I forgot what the leather smelled like, and the pages. I forgot how the wallpaper felt, and the sheets on my bed.” Sherlock pushed himself up off the floor and began placing the books back on their shelves. When he was done, his hand reached and met the base of his microscope. He removed the cover and ran his fingers over that, too, but didn’t take it down. Suddenly Sherlock spun around, eyes wide as if he suddenly remembered something, and then “my violin?”

John placed the mixer down on the table and went to their bedroom to fetch Sherlock’s violin case. When he handed it to Sherlock without a word, he gently sat it on their desk and slowly opened it. As Sherlock ran his fingers over the wood and picked it up by its neck, a small, barely noticeable smile appeared on his face. After rosining the bow, Sherlock brought the violin up to his chin and plucked a few strings after tuning, and he played for hours at the window.


	7. To Build A Home

Four days after Sherlock came home, John awoke with a start some time in the very early morning with the sense that something was terribly _wrong_. He opened one eye as he adjusted to his surroundings, and immediately sat up when he didn’t feel Sherlock next to him.

“Sherlock?” John didn’t get a response, but instead heard heavy breathing from somewhere in the bedroom. John scooted to the edge of the bed and clicked on the dim bedside lamp as he squinted towards the opposite wall. Sherlock was seated in the far corner of the room, his knees drawn up with his chin resting on his knees, and his hands tucked up around his middle. He looked strangely calm.

“Sherlock, love, what’re you doing over there?” Sherlock blinked, but didn’t avert his attention from the bedroom door. Sherlock made a tiny “shh”-ing noise.

“Luka is coming,” Sherlock whispered very, very softly, barely audible enough for John to hear. The hair on the back of John’s neck and arms immediately stood on end as he quickly became alarmed.

“Sherlock… Who’s Luka?” John asked cautiously as he slowly stood up from the bed. He immediately knew what was going on. Of course, Sherlock didn’t reply.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and breathed deeply through his nose as John squatted down next to him without touching.

“He’s mad today. Something has made him angry. I can hear his boots coming this way,” Sherlock’s brow creased in concentration, and he turned his head towards John, and rested his cheek on his knees.

“John,” he whispered as a small, sad smile touched his lips. “Stay there in that room. The gold ornaments reflect in your hair,” Sherlock sighed contentedly, and John assumed that Sherlock must be retreating into his Mind Palace. His contentedness lasted only a second before he violently flinched and his head shot up. “No, no, no, no…” Sherlock began flailing his arms out as if trying to block and protect his head, and started kicking out as if some invisible man was trying to drag him away.

“Sherlock! Stop! You’re safe, you’re safe… I promise. You’re at _home_ , at Baker Street, with me…” John knew better than to touch, but he was afraid Sherlock was going to hurt himself flailing around like that. John managed to grab one wrist, but was immediately punched in the jaw by Sherlock’s other hand. John quickly recovered in time to see his chance, and he was able to grab Sherlock’s free hand in time to straddle him to pin him down.

“Sherlock, wake up, _wake up_. You’re safe! You’re _safe_ , I promise. It’s me, it’s John,” John let go of Sherlock’s wrists and placed his hands on both sides of Sherlock’s face. John not-so-gently ran his hands down the length of Sherlock’s face, and brushed some curls from his forehead. “Sherlock, love --” he pleaded. After a few long moments of running his hands over Sherlock’s face and through his hair, Sherlock started blinking more rapidly before briefly meeting John’s gaze. His eyes narrowed in confusion as he looked around, trying to discern his surroundings.

“...John?” Sherlock choked out. John sputtered out a relieved huff of laughter. “Yeah, yeah, it’s me. John,” John leaned down to place a kiss on Sherlock’s forehead.

“Where am I?” Sherlock whispered again as if afraid to speak too loudly. “Baker Street or Mind Palace?” John could have sworn that his heart broke in half at that moment.

“You’re at Baker Street with me, love. You’re safe, I promise you’ll always be safe with me.” Sherlock let out a breath that he didn’t realize he was holding, and he started to blink rapidly again as his eyes became glassy. “Let’s get you up,” John whispered and gently removed his weight from Sherlock and stretched out a hand to help Sherlock up.

Sherlock shook his head against the floor and closed his eyes again as he lowered his legs back down to the floor. “I’ll stay here for the night. I’ve grown accustomed to it,” Sherlock’s voice went flat again as he steeled his face, putting on his armor. Sherlock turned over on his side and closed his eyes, trying his hardest to seem calm and collected, his old self.

John didn’t say anything. What was there to say? Instead, he laid down on the floor next to Sherlock and pulled him close to his chest. He cradled the back of Sherlock’s head and ran his fingers through his hair, and pretended that he didn’t feel the hot tears seeping into his night shirt.

* * *

 

The next morning John woke up with a stiff neck and his shoulder throbbed terribly. He opened his eyes and found, not to his surprise, that Sherlock was gone from where they fell asleep on the floor. John groaned as he struggled to get up off the floor, all of his bones cracked and popped as he moved. He struggled to the door and finally made it to the loo.

After a steaming shower and a fresh shave, John padded into the kitchen and came to an abrupt halt. There were baked goods _everywhere_. Scones and muffins and biscuits all over the table and counters. The coffee pot was pulled out with a full steaming pot made, a full plate sat at the end of the table with all of John’s favorite breakfast foods, and in the midst of it all stood one Sherlock Holmes. John knew that he must’ve looked like an idiot standing there with his mouth open in shock, and Sherlock casually turned around to face him. He was dressed like his old self, his old self before The Fall, in his full suit and plum colored shirt, and his eyes were bright and _glowing_.

“How --” John looked around their small kitchen in wonder as a fond smile began to form. “How long have you been awake?”

“A few hours. I heard you begin to stir, so I made you breakfast,” Sherlock turned away then to pour two mugs of coffee.

“And how much coffee have you had?”

“Irrelevant.”

John stood there for another moment looking dumbfounded before he took a seat at the table. “I didn’t know you even knew _how_ to cook.”

“Honestly, John. I _did_ manage to survive this long before you came along,” John could practically feel Sherlock rolling his eyes. “Besides, it’s basic chemistry.” John took a small bite of the eggs Sherlock had made for him, and it was surprisingly _delicious_.

“Just to be clear,” John began with an amused tone as he swallowed another mouthful. “This isn’t poisoned or anything, right?” Sherlock glared at John as he sat down in the chair across from John.

“John,” Sherlock said after a few moments of comfortable silence. John looked up, immediately feeling uneasy at the sudden change in tone. “Did I do that?” He asked hesitantly as he motioned at the bruise that had formed overnight along John’s jaw line. John sat his fork down and leaned back in his chair with his hands clasped in his lap.

“Yes,” John said after a moment, “but you were in the middle of a flashback, Sherlock. It’s not your fault,” he quickly added when Sherlock’s expression turned to alarm. “It’s okay, love. Really.” Sherlock opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it. Instead, he stood up and leaned across the table to gently kiss along the bruise.

* * *

 

Throughout the day, the boys of 221B fell into a peaceful domestic silence filled with light caresses when handing over a steaming cup of tea or a quick kiss to a temple in passing. While John contentedly read the newspaper throughout the day and watched some telly, and as the day progressed, John became increasingly worried over Sherlock and his behavior. While he loved seeing his Sherlock this energetic and… _happy_ , something was wrong. It wasn’t _right_ , especially after last night’s episode. It was almost as if Sherlock were back on one of their cases, buzzing around for days without sleep and little nourishment, running on caffeine and nicotine patches.

By 5:00 PM, Sherlock had gathered all of his suits and shirts in neat color-coordinated piles for Mycroft to take to get tailored for him, had re-organized all of his books in the flat by topic and genre rather than alphabetically, and had gone through all of his papers and notebooks that had cluttered the flat for years. Frankly, it was unsettling to see Sherlock this _tidy_.

By 5:30, John had had enough.

“Sherlock, love, why don’t you come sit with me? One of the Bond movies is coming on soon, we can order curry and make fun of it,” John offered with a hopeful smile.

“Can’t,” Sherlock barked from the kitchen with his head in a cabinet, turning all of the tea cups so that the handles were facing outwards. John sighed and got up to go into the kitchen.

“Sherlock, “ John gently laid a hand on his shoulder and gently tugged so that Sherlock would face him. Sherlock sighed dramatically but turned to face John. “Yes?”

“You’re going to run yourself into the ground,” John said gently as he kept his expression soft and caring, not at all demanding. “Why are you doing all of this, love?” John asked and motioned around them to indicate the flat. Sherlock deflated then and slouched his shoulders.

“I don’t want to think, John,” Sherlock whispered. “I don’t want to think about last night, and it’s been so long since I’ve been here at _home_ , and I’m scared I’ll lose it.”

John stepped even closer to Sherlock, and wrapped his arms around his middle. “I won’t let you lose it.”


	8. Somewhere Only We Know

John was startled awake from his nap on the couch in the morning by a sudden lapful of soft curls. John looked down with a small smirk and tried to slow his heart from the shock. Sherlock sighed contentedly and nuzzled his head against John’s belly so that he’d start massaging Sherlock’s head.

“Morning,” John murmured, amused. Sherlock hummed and turned his head in different directions to guide John all along his scalp. After a moment, Sherlock flipped himself over onto his back, clasped his hands over his middle, and peered up at John with big, innocent puppy-like eyes. John’s eyes immediately narrowed in suspicion.

“... what?” John ventured carefully.

“Let’s go away for a while,” Sherlock said quietly as he hopefully maintained eye contact. “Mycroft has people who maintain the family vacation home in Sussex. We could stay a few days,” Sherlock added quickly. John’s face immediately softened once he learned that nothing had been set on fire or destroyed. “We always used to go when I was a child,” Sherlock took in a breath and whispered, as if in secret, “Mycroft kept my beehives.” John thought it was impossible to ever love Sherlock even more than he already did, but he was wrong. John smiled and smoothed back Sherlock’s curls with both hands, and leaned down to kiss his forehead.

“Of course, love. Whatever you want,” John replied and kissed Sherlock’s forehead once, twice more. He would do anything Sherlock wanted if it made him happy and whole again, even for just a little while. Sherlock beamed.

“Great, get up!” Sherlock rolled off the couch and up, somehow he remained graceful as always and went to head to their bedroom.

“What, right now? It’s 8:00 AM, Sherlock,”

“Yes, John, _now_ ,” Sherlock groaned. “There’s a train leaving in an hour!”

Of course there was, John thought.

* * *

 

On the train, in the privacy of their little nook in the back, Sherlock laid on the bench facing the window, his head in John’s lap, knees up, and eyes closed as the sunbeams warmed his face. Sherlock had a small content smile, and John didn’t miss the little happy sigh that escaped Sherlock’s lips.

“What’re you thinking about in there?” John asked as he tapped Sherlock’s forehead playfully.

Sherlock didn’t answer right away, and for a moment, John thought that maybe Sherlock hadn’t heard him at all, but then “Sunshine,” Sherlock said simply. “I’ve missed it. Of course, there was sunshine where I traveled, but it wasn’t the same.” John looked down at Sherlock’s face. He still looked content and happy, so John ignored the massive pit in his stomach and how his heart pounded.

After a few moments of silence, Sherlock spoke again, but never opened his eyes or moved a muscle.

“The house in Sussex was something I thought about quite often while I was chained up in Serbia,” he said simply, deadpan as if he talked casually about the weather. “The sunshine. Sometimes the shore where Mycroft would sometimes tolerate me enough to indulge in my pirate fantasies,” Sherlock gave a small amused hum under his breath. “I would go to Sussex when Luka and Aleksandar came in. Mostly, though, I conjured up you.” Sherlock’s body grew tense underneath John’s hands, and so John began to massage small circular motions over Sherlock’s chest to remind him that he was still there, that he didn’t need to be afraid.

“My mind did such a thorough job conjuring up Mind Palace John that I could no longer differentiate between the illusion my mind created and reality after a while. It made them angrier that I was no longer reacting to them as I had been. I was mostly in a catatonic state, I suppose.” Sherlock let out a long, shuddering breath. “You would say _Sherlock Holmes, what in the bloody hell do you think you’re doing, giving up_ , in that tone you always used with me,” Sherlock said as he mimicked how John would always sternly remind him of how fantastic he was, that he always did his best when things became too much for him.

“Or you’d say _Sherlock, love_ \--” Sherlock’s voice cracked a little when he said _love_ , but he continued, “ _you’ve gotta come home to me, yeah? Back to Baker Street_. You should’ve seen my Mind Palace Baker Street. It was rather impressive. We’d bicker back and forth. They probably thought I was a goddamn lunatic by the end of it.” It always shook John a bit whenever Sherlock would curse. It sounded so odd coming from his mouth, from the velvety voice.

Sherlock finally opened his eyes then and gazed out the window. “After a while, though, a month or two in, a part of me had given up. Coming back to you in my Mind Palace had to be good enough. Mycroft hadn’t come for me -- he didn’t know where I had ended up -- and I had no other tricks up my sleeve,” Sherlock shrugged then and tilted his head back to peer up at John with a small, sad smile. “But he’s Mycroft Holmes. Of course, he knew where I was. Just took him a bit,” he added with another shrug and looked back out the window. Sherlock almost had a trace of fondness in his voice. “I’ll always be grateful to Mycroft for that. Beyond grateful.” Sherlock added quietly, and then “don’t ever tell him I said that,” he snapped quickly.

John placed his hands on either side of Sherlock’s face and tilted his head back to look at him. “You did come home to me,” John whispered. “And Mycroft,” John added for good measure, “was terrified when he came to me. I’ve never seen him like that. He thought he was losing you again. He wouldn’t have left you, Sherlock, you hear me? We wouldn’t have left you.”

When Sherlock unlocked the front door to the small cottage, he dropped their bags on the floor, grabbed John’s hand, and said “come here, John,” as he hurriedly pulled John towards the back of the house and out through sliding glass doors. He was so eager to show John whatever it was he was trying to get to that John couldn’t help but laugh fondly. Finally, Sherlock abruptly stopped in a large garden quite a ways away from the house near the shore filled with trees and flowers and large stones, and there in the middle were four large honeybee hives. Sherlock stood there and held John’s hand, completely enamored, and John was completely enamored by Sherlock. He was so beautiful at that moment.

“Mycroft has someone to come harvest the honey for me. That’s what we have at home,” Sherlock said quietly.

“Really?” John asked, completely surprised as his eyebrows shot up. He always figured it was a local honey that Sherlock picked up somewhere in London.

“Stay right here,” Sherlock replied as he rushed back off toward the house. A few minutes later, Sherlock reappeared with a blanket and laid it out in the garden near the trees. He plopped down without a word and laid down. John settled down as well and folded his arms behind his head as he peered up at the sky. John turned to look at Sherlock as he watched the clouds.

“You’re beautiful,” John murmured “and I love you. We can stay here forever if it makes you this happy.”

“I only wanted to get away for a little while. I’ve been dreaming of this place,” Sherlock said quietly. “I do love it here, but I think we would both miss London too much. Maybe when we’re old and gray,” Sherlock smiled at John then -- a genuine smile -- as the crow’s feet John loved so much appeared at his eyes.

John grinned back, “deal”.

* * *

 

**Mycroft [6:05:12]:** What in the world are you two doing in Sussex?

**Sent [6:10:03]:** We needed to get out of London for a few days, Mycroft.

**Mycroft [6:10:15]:** For what? What happened?

**Sent [6:11:46]:** Nothing happened. We just wanted some time away. Talk to your brother yourself.

 

John huffed, irritated, as he tossed his phone on the bed.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, “nosy git…” he muttered under his breath as he sank down in the cool, crisp sheets with a content sigh. John walked over to his side of the bed and climbed in. He watched Sherlock as he appeared to become a small child again under the covers when he pulled them up to his nose -- only his nose, eyes, and mop of curls still visible as he inhaled. “It even smells like sunshine…” he murmured and shimmied himself further into the plush mattress.

John chuckled, “come here, you.” He crawled over to Sherlock and draped an arm around his waist tenderly and pressed his forehead to Sherlock’s. He turned his head just a tad to each side -- butterfly kisses -- and chuckled when it made Sherlock laugh like it used to. “I love you, you know. I’m so, so glad that we’re getting a second chance.”

“John,” Sherlock whispered, “when Mycroft got me out, and I was in hospital, all I kept thinking was that if I did make it home to you, that I was going to do everything in my power so that you always knew how important you are to me, and how much I love you. I’m different now, in some ways, I’m broken. Probably not forever, I know, but for now, and I don’t want to go back to being that cold… _machine_ ,” Sherlock said, and John flinched at that memory when John had called him a machine, but Sherlock was desperate as he tried to make John understand. “I _can’t_ be that person, and I need you to know. I need you to know that I didn’t go willingly, jumping was my very last resort, I couldn’t let them take you from me. I am so... sincerely sorry that I had to put you through that -- it’s something I’ve had to live with every day and will continue to do so -- but I’m going to spend the rest of my days making it up to you.” Sherlock was growing more frantic as he continued to talk as if he thought he was running out of time.

“Shhh… it’s okay, love. I understand, I do. Calm down,” John soothed and kissed his forehead. Sherlock huffed in irritation, and John smiled at him fondly. Sherlock would die if anyone ever found out, but he secretly loved it when John was tender with him like this. John suspected that it was because these times -- when he and John were alone -- were the only ones where Sherlock could let his guard down and not try to control everything in his life. He passed that responsibility over to John, and John would happily take it from him.


	9. Something to Believe In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't Brit-picked and I don't have a beta reader, so excuse any American mistakes, please! :)  
> See the end notes for more info.
> 
> (Also, if you would like to be my beta reader/Brit-picker, I will happily chat with you!)

Sherlock woke up the next morning wrapped up in a cocoon of blankets and realized that he didn’t have a nightmare the previous night. In fact, he didn’t remember dreaming at all. He broke into a grin at the realization and then looked over when he heard the mattress creak. Laying next to Sherlock was John, poor John, fully clothed and just waking up.

When John opened his eyes and gave a soft smile when he saw Sherlock, Sherlock frowned. “You’re cold. I stole all the covers,” Sherlock said sadly. John must have gotten up in the middle of the night to put on some clothes instead of waking Sherlock. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, love. You seemed to be sleeping so peacefully, I didn’t want to wake you.”

Sherlock unwrapped himself and lifted the sheets for John to join him, and John happily obliged. John faced Sherlock and curled up against him, breathing in the scent of Sherlock. Cedarwood and citrus. John loved it, and the scent in itself always made him happy. The two stayed quiet for quite a while, relaxing and enjoying each other’s company, listening to the sounds outside. It was so surreal whenever they realized that they didn’t hear any indication of city life outside of the cottage.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, Sherlock’s voice vibrated against John’s head, and John smiled. That voice. He had such a _thing_ for that voice.

“There’s a small cafe in town that I would like to take you to,” Sherlock said. “If you would like. They have the best scones in all of England,” Sherlock added just in case he needed to persuade John. John hummed happily.

“... It’s called The Busy Bee,” Sherlock added quietly as he hid half of his face in John’s hair.

“The Busy Bee,” John said as he leaned back a bit to peer at Sherlock, blinked, and smiled fondly.

“Yes.”

“Alright, let’s get going then.”

* * *

 

“Sherlock Holmes!” An older middle-aged man bellowed when Sherlock and John entered The Busy Bee and waited at the “wait to be seated” sign. “What a surprise! Jessica, get out here!” The man held out his hand for a handshake, and after some dishes were beaten around back in the kitchen, an older woman appeared as well.

“Sherlock Holmes!” She said excitedly and rushed towards them. “What a wonderful surprise!” She giggled and pulled him into a hug. “We thought you were dead! Oh, my God, what a relief when we read the papers. Your brother wouldn't tell us a thing. Look at you! You look as good as ever!” She continued as she patted his chest.

“Yes. Thank you,” Sherlock said quietly. He appeared polite and formal as always out in public, but John didn’t miss the flinch. “This is Dr. John Watson,” Sherlock added quickly. “My… partner,” Sherlock finished. He and John never really talked about what to introduce each other as. Everyone always just kind of knew .

“Yes, of course! Let me get you boys some scones. I just made a batch of your favorite. Sit wherever you’d like. Tea?” Sherlock’s throat seemed to have swollen shut. He opened his mouth and quickly closed it, unable to speak.

“Yes, please,” John said quickly with a smile. John gave Sherlock a concerned look and led them to a small table in front of the large front window. It was gloomy out, the kind of weather Sherlock loved, overcast and rainy, and it made the small cafe even cozier.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Sherlock choked out and looked out the window. The cobblestone bricks outside were darkened by the rain, and the potted flowers in front of the window were swaying in the breeze. White fairy lights were draped around the large picture window, casting the small cafe in a magical light, and John continued to look around.

“This place is nice. Very quaint,” John said with a smile as he placed his hands on the table. Shortly after, two tea cups and a pot were placed on their table with a variety of different teas as well as a plate of a variety of fresh scones.

“Here you go. I made sure to add a few extra orange ones in there with that special glaze you like, too,” Jessica cooed with a wink. Sherlock peered up at her with a soft gaze that John has never seen given to anyone other than Mrs. Hudson. “Thank you,” he said genuinely.

John watched Sherlock curiously as Sherlock pointedly avoided his stare and busied himself with an orange scone. “Try the raspberry one, I think that’ll be your favorite,” Sherlock said as he pointed it out.

“So how do you know this place?” John asked casually. “Did you solve a case of theirs?”

Sherlock frowned as he broke his scone in half and popped a piece in his mouth. “No,” he said and chewed. For a second John thought that Sherlock wasn’t going to elaborate, and he wasn’t going to push it, but then Sherlock spoke quietly to the table. “I was best friends with their son when we were children. I would stay in Sussex with our aunt during school breaks.” Sherlock finished.

“Oh,” John said, interested. It wasn’t like Sherlock to talk much about his childhood. “Where is he now? Did he stay in Sussex?”

“He died,” Sherlock said as he began to chew the other half of his scone.

“Oh,” John didn’t know what else to say, but finally Sherlock looked up at him and grabbed another orange scone. “This raspberry one _is_ very good,” John said casually to ease Sherlock’s discomfort. “Thank you for bringing me here. We should take some back to the cottage.” Sherlock hummed in agreement.

“He drowned one day while we were swimming. We were 11,” Sherlock explained. “I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t pull him out in time, and they have never blamed me,” Sherlock said casually as he slid into his cold mask in order to detach from his emotions, but John knew better. Sherlock took a sip of his tea.

“That’s because it wasn’t your fault,” John said. Sherlock merely looked at John and popped another piece of scone in his mouth. John was pleased to see Sherlock eating this much, but he definitely wasn’t going to say anything. Sherlock would immediately stop out of spite if it was mentioned.

“So what else do you want to do today?”

“I have somewhere else I’d like to take you.”

* * *

 

Sherlock and John walked contentedly down the stone drive, John carrying a bag that held a box of fresh scones that Mrs. Johnson insisted on sending with them. Sherlock picked at another orange scone as they walked, and John noticed the light pep that Sherlock had in his step. He was happy to be here. John smiled to himself.

Quite a ways down the hill (John secretly dreaded the hike back up), Sherlock stopped in front of a row of old adjoined stone buildings. He cut a corner and stopped at an iron railing that surrounded stone steps leading down into a sub-level section of the building.

“Come on,” Sherlock whispered excitedly as if sharing a secret, and he grabbed John’s hand to lead him down the stairs. John couldn’t help but laugh. When the door closed behind them, John was met with a rather large used book shop. Every wall was lined with shelves up to the ceiling with a sliding ladder attached, and in the middle of the shop sat tables with bins of old vinyl records. Little trinkets and boxes and figurines lined all of the tiny unused spaces around the shop, and John was in awe. This looked like the _exact_ thing that would be right up Sherlock’s alley.

“Mycroft and I used to come here when we were children,” Sherlock’s eyes gleamed and he smiled. “Mycroft bought me my first copy of _Origin of Species_ here when I was eight. I always bought any copies he had in stock whenever I came to visit if he had any.” Sherlock began to walk along the shelves as he ran his fingers over the spines of the books. As Sherlock became lost in thought, John decided to do his own investigation. He looked all around and found that signs were up on the walls to indicate where each genre was located, and he made his way over to the non-fiction section. As he scanned the shelves, he smiled to himself. He had found what he was looking for.

“There you are,” John said as he came up behind Sherlock fifteen minutes later. He wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s waist, and the man turned to face him with a stack of books teetering in his arms.

“Here,” Sherlock shoved the stack of books to John to hold and bent down to the floor to pick up a second stack once John took them off his hands. John scoffed and shook his head, but didn’t say a word. Finally, they made it up to the counter to pay.

“... Sherlock?” A cautious voice murmured as he came from behind a curtain.

Sherlock smiled, “Hi, Dorsey,” he said smoothly.

Dorsey gaped for a second at Sherlock. “Sweet Jesus, I thought that was you. I haven’t seen you since you were, what… thirteen years old? How are you? I heard you’ve become a detective. Is this Dr. Watson?” Dorsey asked quickly as he became more and more excited.

“John Watson,” John introduced himself and held his hand out. Dorsey graciously took it with a growing grin and peered back at Sherlock.

“Can’t believe it,” he murmured. “How about Mycroft? How’s he?”

“Oh, you know. Mycroft,” Sherlock shrugged.

“Sure, sure,” Dorsey continued to grin as he put his glasses on. “What do ya have here?” Sherlock and John placed all of the books up on the counter. In the end, Sherlock walked away with 13 books, having only paid for half of them and with a promise to visit more often. Dorsey wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.

“There are so many people here who adore you, Sherlock,” John said once they were back out on the road with hands full of bags.

“What can I say? I was a very charming child.” John snorted at that and rolled his eyes.

* * *

 

“I have something for you,” John said as he brought out two glasses of wine. Sherlock and John had just unpacked their curry and turned on some bad telly.

“You got me something?” Sherlock asked, surprised. “When did you have time to get me something? I was with you all day.”

John grinned smugly, quite proud of himself, and pulled out a plastic bag from the bag of scones. He brought it over and sat next to Sherlock. Sherlock lifted an eyebrow at him and cautiously opened the bag. Inside Sherlock found an old leather-bound edition of _Origin of Species_. Sherlock carefully placed it in his lap as if it might shatter, and ran his fingers over the cover.

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock whispered very quietly. John couldn’t quite read his expression. It was a combination of happiness and sadness and nostalgia all at once, and John was beginning to question if whether or not he had messed up. John began to backpedal.

“I… I know you always went with your brother and that it was… your thing, but I thought… I thought since we went this time--”

“No, John, I love it. Thank you,” Sherlock interrupted. “Truly,” Sherlock leaned forward and brushed a kiss over John’s lips. John gave a small smile and opened up the front cover for Sherlock to see. Inside, there was a handwritten note on a piece of tan paper torn out of a notebook.

_Sherlock,_

_I know things are hard right now, but I want you to know that I love you, and I will never, ever leave you._  
_Especially now that I’ve got you back._  
_I am so very grateful to have you in my life, and I hope that you will always remember that._  
_So keep this in case you ever need to remind yourself that you are not alone and that you are so amazing and strong and brave._

 _Love always,_  
_John_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Busy Bee cafe... I based this off of 2 things:
> 
> A) There's a small family-owned cafe here named The Busy Bea (their last name is Bea), and... I just had to.  
> B) I based it off of Ginger & Dobbs in East Essex that I found online. 
> 
> I'm American, so I have absolutely no idea about any of the local places over there. I've only been to Scotland, and I didn't want to pick anything from my memory there. I wanted something that looked cute and quaint and cozy, and that seemed to fit in with the itty bitty place in Essex that I had conjured up in my head.

**Author's Note:**

> Also, follow me on tumblr @ [2am-limbo](http://2am-limbo.tumblr.com/).


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